Ikiro
by Calenlass Greenleaf
Summary: Deliberately, he reaches out, hands cupping Saitou's face. His fingers are bloody, but blood has never bothered either of them. The two of them are more bloodstained than anyone else in the Shinsengumi, so what's a little more red? Saitou's skin is pale but not sickly like his; his warmth is different from the bone-aching fever that constantly burns in him. [warnings inside]
1. I -- IV

**Title:** Ikiro

**Author:** Cal (Calenlass Greenleaf)

**Disclaimer:** IF/DF owns Hakuouki; Kazuki Yone owns the character designs.

**Spoilers:** I'm going to be lazy and say everything. Anime/movie/games (main game, fandisc, mentions of Reimeiroku; references to things that happen in Souji and Saitou's routes). **_There is character death._** Basically—anime/movie canon with game influences. It's a mess of canon, sorry. See the end for fuller notes.

**Rating:** M

**Pairing:** Saitou/Souji, not so much of a romance. More like what ifs and emotions getting in the way.

**Warnings:** Violence, blood, character deaths—whatever Hakuouki already has. Warning for implied sex but is more like suedo-smut because I can't do explicit NC-17 smut, lol. It's definitely obvious though.

**A/N:** Written for a secret santa exchange. The request was for "Okita holding Saitou's face in his hands," but included another request "NSFW: Okita/Saitou."

One more thing—the POV changes; odd-numbers are Souji and even-numbers are Saitou.

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><p><strong><em>Ikiro<em>**

_I want to live, not just survive._

**I.**

It can be argued that Saitou's glare is more terrifying than Hijikata's. Or, to Okita, anyway. Hijikata's glare summons an urge to steal haiku and run circles around him, but Saitou's cool gaze makes you back up and clear your throat and wonder if you ought to bow.

But only sometimes.

"…" Sometimes, his silence is more foreboding.

"…"

"…Something wrong, Hajime-kun?"

"This is not proper."

"Eh?" Okita tilts his head. "_That's_ what is bothering you?"

"I told you—" Saitou moves away, but Souji grabs his wrist. "What do you think you're doing?"

"Look, I don't care." Souji lets go and begins to walk again. The men behind them stay nothing, though it's clear they are very interested in this hushed conversation between the First Division Captain and the Third Division Captain. "I don't care about the ranks. Hijikata-san probably doesn't even care that much, either."

"But—"

Souji swings his arms. "This will make it easier." He refuses to move. It's just ranks. And it's not as if Hajime-kun is better or worse in sword skill. You would think after all the time they have fought together, Saitou would've picked up on it. Either he has and is too humble, or he's too courteous.

"I will go to fukuchou about this."

"I'm telling you, he won't care. In fact," Souji grins, "He might take my side after I explain this is so much more convenient." Because it is. He draws from his left, and Saitou from his right. If they were standing on opposite sides, they run a risk of cutting each other.

"Saitou-kun." He relents and decides to give the other a little more reason to believe in him. "Trust me. It's better this way. I'm used to walking in the front without anyone at my side, but if we're doing patrols together, isn't it easier if we were comfortable?"

He's the first to acknowledge Saitou, after all. Even before Hijikata-san comes in with his perfect line about how to a left-handed person, all other people were cheaters. Big deal. Hijikata-san talks too much. The fact that he went toe-to-toe with Souji was enough for him.

Souji can literally see Saitou's mind at work. Maybe Saitou himself doesn't know it, but small movements in his fingers gives away his train of thought. They clench, twitch, shift against each other, and finally relax on the hilt of his sword.

"Very well."

_Souji: 1. Saitou: 0._

"However, you need not be concerned about what is better for me."

"Hm? Did I ever say anything like that?" Souji's eyes widen in mock innocence. That's as close of a "thank you" he'll get for now. He continues to smile, even if Saitou is deliberately not looking at him.

This is how they've always been.

**II.**

Souji probably has a partnership with death. For every person he kills, he earns a higher position somewhere in a different world. Or so the joke goes.

But for every injury he receives, his life is halved. Or fourthed. Whichever is worse or better. It's not that he's careless, or reckless even. To put it simply, Souji puts his life out there because he doesn't fight halfway. He fights harder than anyone else. And his humour, dark as it may be, is a side benefit of being Souji.

It's rare that he's entirely down.

Blood and Souji are almost friends. Just. not when it's his own blood and its sounds like he is choking on it. Abouthalfway through their walk back to headquarters, Souji insists on walking on his own instead of being carried. Hijikata looks murderous, and even Kondou looks more than a little dismayed. Saitou steps in at that moment, with the excuse that the children Souji plays with might be frightened if they saw him carried in. He offers his own shoulder. Thankfully Hijikata trusts him and leaves them without another word.

Souji's gasps have quieted, and he leans on Saitou's frame only when he has to cough. Still, he really shouldn't be walking in this sort of condition.

"I forgot how humid it gets in July. No wonder I fainted."

_And the blood loss._ Saitou keeps this thought in his head. _And the possible internal bleeding, as well as broken ribs and who knows what else. _

"Did you see what Chizuru-chan did?"

"I was not there to see who you fought, nor did I see what she did."

"She gave me an opening. I was surprised."

"I see." Saitou shifts his hold on Souji. "Who was your opponent?"

"Someone who shouldn't have been there. But next time," Souji grits his teeth. "It won't be like this."

He does not doubt it.

Souji says nothing for the remainder of the walk; he's too winded and Saitou himself is feeling weariness with every step he takes. Once they are back, Souji makes as if to go to his room, but Saitou follows him and tells him to wait while he fetches supplies.

"Did Hijikata-san put you up to this task?"

"No."

"Then Yamazaki did."

"No, he did not."

Souji studies him, seems to want to argue, but then finally shrugs. "Have it your way."

So here they were, Souji leaning against a wall with a bottle of sake and Saitou is armed with needle and thread.

"Hold still."

"Maybe I should have let Yamazaki do this. He would complain more, but I think he has more precision."

"Are you doubting my skill?"

"No need to be insulted, Hajime-k—_hn_." Souji's breathing hitches. "But this my skin that you're trying to stitch. I need it intact."

Saitou glares. "It would hurt less if you didn't needlessly move."

"I could swear you're making it hurt more than necessary."

He stops replying; at some point, Souji is simply complaining for the purpose of complaining. Yes, there are broken ribs, but Souji claims he doesn't hurts any worse. The only other serious injuries are the gashes that needed stitches.

Saitou doesn't do a bad job; stitching takes a steady, neat hand, and when it comes to flesh, it takes a certain stomach because there is some disturbing about pushing a needle and threading it in and out skin and the little ridges it makes.

"I think I need more sake."

He pushes the bottle towards Souji.

"Luck was on your side today, no?" The other man continues, drinking directly from the bottle because the cup is too small for his purposes. "You seem to always avoid injuries."

"I did not have the misfortune of running into the opponents that tried to take you and Heisuke out."

"Ah, really? We'll have to fix that next time. It's unfair that you're in perfect health."

Saitou says nothing about that. He finishes up the last set of stitches and cuts the thread. "I'm almost done."

Souji inspects the row, grimacing a little as movement pulls on the wound. "I can take them out myself in a few days." He raises a hand to his mouth to cover a lingering cough.

He washes his hands and finds a clean bandage. "You were also lucky. If Yukimura-kun had not been there, you might've been killed."

"Hm? Are you concerned?"

"It would be devastating to lose the First Division Captain," Saitou replies without pause as he adjusts the bindings and pronounces it done. "And…certain people would grieve."

Something flashes through Souji's eyes. "You're right," he says while pulling his clothes back in place, then reaching for the sake again. "It would be stupid to die like that before I ever did anything." A large gulp. "I can't leave Kondou-san to Hijikata-san. Hijikata-san would probably do something stupid without me."

He offers the sake to Saitou, who takes it without commenting on how Souji's other hand has tightened into a fist.

Some things are better left unsaid.

**III.**

The night before Saitou and Heisuke are to leave with Itou's faction, Okita shows up at his room. He is acknowledge with a nod, and then he watches the younger man pack and then care for his sword. Calmly. Efficiently. As if tomorrow were simply the same routine of meals, patrols, and reports.

Somehow, it annoys him. It annoys him more than his own coughing does.

"Aren't you going to say something, Hajime-kun?" No last words, at all?

"There is nothing to say for now." Powder sprinkles in the air as Saitou pats down the blade. "I will say my farewells tomorrow morning, and then I will be parted from the Shinsengumi indefinitely."

"I call bullshit." Okita rises from his seat near the door, crouching near Saitou. "Hijikata-san, letting you go, just like that? I find that hard to believe." Shinpachi and the others have joked that Saitou is like Hijikata's shadow. In way, he is. Quietly going about his duties, without questions and unobtrusively getting things done. Hijikata probably trusts Saitou more than Okita, despite having known him longer. Not that it matters to Okita. He's not looking for Hijikata's favour anyway.

"He is allowing me to follow my beliefs."

"Your beliefs," Okita repeats, tilting his head. "Hm. Make me understand." As far as he knew, Saitou's always been fairly straightforward in his belief and single-minded in his goals. This act of leaving just didn't fit.

But then again, Saitou has never openly disliked Itou the way he and some others have. All he said was something along the lines of "too many differing opinions could be a weakness."

"I do not need to explain myself to you." In one fluid move, Saitou sheathes his sword and places it away. He has very little personal belongings. But then again, nearly all of them could easily pick up their lives and move out if they so wished. They're not one to obsess over mementos or the like.

"No?"

"I told you—fukuchou has accepted my reasons to leave, and we are parting on good terms."

"And you never thought about what I'd say?"

Saitou raises his head to meet Okita's. "I'll hear what you have to say, now."

He makes a sound in the back of his throat and grimaces. Sometimes talking to Saitou only got him so far. Saitou's intuition is too good. Time for a change of pace…a little something that might be easier. "I have a better idea. How about one last spar?"

The younger man nods. "Very well."

Okita waits as Saitou blows out the light, and they make their way to the empty dojo and pick up their bokuto. Technically there is a curfew, but they're not outside the gates, and neither thinks Hijikata will splice hairs over training.

Usually, Okita strikes first, but tonight he lets Saitou move first. There is something he wants to read in the atmosphere, one that he can't get by simply talking.

Saitou's movements do not vary much because they're straightforward like him; however, he is as unyielding as ever and frustratingly fast. But Okita knows this dance; he follows every parry and block with thrusts of his own, striking towards vital points. He gets the first hit in; a swipe to Saitou's side that makes the other breathe a little harder, but his face remains shuttered. Stubbornly so.

But he's used to this. If anything, he knows how to get under people's skin. It's simply always been a little harder when it comes to Saitou.

The second round starts with him leaping in, his footwork impeccable. Fighting is like what walking is to other people—it came easily and he likes it for the fact his sword is something that does not judge him. Killing, injuring, cutting—whatever he does, his sword accepts him.

It's his body that lets him down. Saitou didn't even touch him; jagged pain suddenly wrenches his chest and cuts off air, and he staggers to one side, catching his balance with his sword as he heaves and coughs. His world swims in bursts of colour and then white, then black, but he doesn't pass out.

_Damn it._

At least Saitou doesn't move. Doesn't even seem to blink. He simply stands there until Okita can straighten his back again, wiping his mouth and drawing in air that seem to burn his lungs with each inhale. "The night air is dry," he offers with a grin as his vision clear, but it feels like he's been thrown off a high cliff. "And I haven't really gotten over that cold. Shall we continue?"

"Souji." The way Saitou says his name gives him pause. "I already know about it."

He can't place his finger on how he feels. Only that is practice and habit that allows him to still smile and laugh even as his annoyance gives way to actual anger. "…you know, eavesdropping is rude, Hajime-kun." He doubts Chizuru-chan has said anything. For all her faults, she is not a promise-breaker. So that only leaves one other option. "And so is tattling."

"Did you think no one else suspected?"

"How many people know?" He drops all form of amusement. This is a serious question.

"Kondou-san doesn't know."

Meaning, Hijikata probably knows. That tastes worse than blood in his mouth. Okita's lips are thin and tight. "For something leaving tomorrow morning, you sure seem attached to our _oni-fukuchou_."

"That was before I made my decisions."

Something snaps in him, and suddenly all the questions pour out. "So, did he tell you to tail me? Did he ask how long I have to live? Did he say anything about sending me away?" With each question, he takes a step closer to Saitou. "Because I'm sure he'd love to do that. From the start, he didn't even want me here—I had to beg Kondou-san to let me come along. Even now, I'm trying, for his sake."

They are inches apart when he stops. "And you think it's your duty to tell Hijikata that I'm dying, don't you, Saitou-kun. _Who gave you the right?_"

His head hurts. His chest hurts. He could reach out and grab Saitou by that scarf. And then shove him. Maybe hit him. A lot of things come to mind.

Okita doesn't expect Saitou to be the one to pull him closer and kiss him. Not a peck on the cheek or a chaste touch of lips to his forehead. Mouth-to-mouth, with Saitou's head tipped to one side so as to not knock noses with him.

It ends as abruptly as it started. Saitou straightens his ponytail, expression still as nondescript as ever. "Good night, Souji," is all he says before he leaves. No explanation. No apologies.

Okita spends the night in the dojo, alternating between furiously swinging his bokuto and staring up at a ceiling that holds no answers.

He does not say goodbye in the morning.

**IV.**

Souji will probably try to kill him should they run into each other.

Saitou has accepted this fact, in his usual manner of accepting things.

Yet the question "why" remains. One superficial reason is that it stopped Souji from asking him about Hijikata-san's motives, as well as his own motives. He does not consider the other reasons. Not yet. Only a few things are worth losing sleep over, and the fact that Saitou Hajime kissed Okita Souji is not one of them.

Everyone seems to have resigned themselves to the fact he is no longer of the Shinsengumi, except Souji. It's to be expected; Souji has quite the suspicious mind, always considering every option before he reacts. Things that he says or does are meant to garner reactions. It's a game he plays, a game that he rules and owns.

He just never plays it well with Saitou. And Saitou knows this. He knows that Souji breaks his own rules, and allows Saitou to break them.

It had everything and nothing to do with that kiss.

Months pass, and he finds his routine of playing the spy to be easy enough. Heisuke knows nothing; Saitou has considered dropping hints, but the other seems lost, and he can't help another find his route because some things you have to do on your own. He takes pains to avoid the Shinsengumi patrols whenever he goes about his business in the city. It's easy enough to see the _asagi-iro_ coloured haori that are almost painfully bright underneath the sun, the familiar voices that beckon to him. It's harder to avoid them at night when he slips back and forth to hand messages to Hijikata. Some he can pass to Yamazaki or Shimada, but others he prefers to deliver verbally.

Actually, he does it because he wants to. The Shinsengumi is where his heart is; to see Hijikata-san eases some of his worries. A spy's job is tough; he has to maintain his relationships with Itou's group and keep up the pretence, and such is tiring. Going back to where he came from is almost therapeutic.

He has considered visiting Souji, but prudence tells him otherwise.

So he's taken aback when the First Division Captain sits down in front of him when he's at a restaurant. Out of uniform, Souji's not as recognisable to the public, but other people might see.

He glares.

Souji smiles, but there's an edge to that grin. He's not here for fun.

"What do you think you're doing?"

"Hm? Did you say something?" Souji waves at one of the serving ladies. "I'll have what he's having! Even though," he glances at Saitou's dish, "it's mostly tofu, as I expected."

Insult Saitou all you want, but say something about tofu—Saitou points his chopsticks at Souji. "Leave."

"Iya desu." Flippantly so. Saitou's eyebrows narrow. Only Hijikata ever gets that tone of voice from Souji. Meaning it's one of the rare times he actually angry with Saitou.

"Do you want to cause a ruckus here?"

"Only if you raise your sword, Hajime-kun."

As if he would ever do something like that. Instead, he rises and pays for his meal, and more or less stalks out. Souji has enough sense to follow a few paces behind him instead of directly chasing after him.

There are no murderous intentions. Yet. Just an anger that blankets everything and there are obviously people whispering about this dark aura that surrounds them even as they get out of the way. So much for secrecy.

They're near the river when Saitou pauses some metres away as Souji coughs. He sounds worse, and Saitou unsure what is more painful—the coughs, or the struggle for air between the sounds of slow death. Or maybe it is looking at Souji and the translucence of skin and the frame that seems to have gotten thinner—is that what was more painful? He can't even imagine that sort of pain.

_Don't pity me,_ everything about Souji's look says as he clutches his chest and had to sink down to his knees. _Don't you dare._

Saitou meets his gaze without flinching. It is Souji who breaks eye contact first, leaning against a tree as he gets back on his feet.

"I'm sure Chizuru-chan misses you. I think she doesn't know who to worry more for…you, Heisuke, me, Hijikata-san…" Souji begins the conversation casually enough. "But my guess is Hijikata-san will win, like he always does."

"Are you saying—?"

"Don't put words in my mouth."

They both know the repercussions of serious relationships. Neither is considering it. They are not discussing the topic of the only female in the Shinsengumi. But this—this thing between them, whatever it is, Saitou kissed Souji several months ago and they hadn't even tried to talk about it. Is it even a safe topic?

"Why are you here? If someone sees us…" He stops. Of course Souji knows. Then why?

"Because it's really rude of you, Hajime-kun. Hasn't anyone ever taught you how it works?" Souji leans against the tree with all the appearance of being relaxed, but there is tension in his shoulders and neck. "Kissing is like a promise. So what sort of promise is that?"

"That was my apology."

"So you think one little kiss is going to fix everything." Fingernails scrape cruelly at tree bark. "Well, I hate to disappoint, but I'm still dying, everyone looks as if they want to say they're sorry about my condition, and I can barely get outside these days." He laughs, a bitter sound that is unlike his usual joviality. "Don't fuck with me, Saitou."

Any other person would've backed down and apologise. Not Saitou. "I do not play. However, if you did not like it, I'll take it back."

"Just like that?"

"If you wished."

"And what do you know about my wishes?"

"That everything is for Kondou-san."

"Yes," Souji agrees, closing his eyes. "Everything is for him."

The afternoon breeze sweeps by, tugging at their clothes and hair and Saitou finds himself pulled in Souji's direction. His senses tell him no one is around to catch them together.

"But," The other continues, swaying a little on his feet. "Where do you fit in my wishes?"

Saitou has no answer for that. Souji grasps him by his upper arms, nearly treading on his feet.

"You haven't fallen for me, have you?"

"No."

"Then what?"

"…I don't know."

The look in Souji's eyes says he would hit him. But it never happens. He instead leans his forehead against Saitou's shoulder, hands still gripping his arms.

"_Ne_." Quietly now. "What am I supposed to do when I'm like this?"

To that, he does have a reply. An imperfect one, but a reply nonetheless. He lifts his hand, and presses it to back of Souji's neck. There's a fever heat there, and he can feel it even through his clothing. He can hear the fitful breathes, and feel the body that trembled.

Souji is worse than he actually looks. He shouldn't even be outside right now, much less even standing.

The man's voice voice is muffled. "I'm not supposed to be near people."

"I know."

"There's a chance you might get sick."

"Perhaps."

Souji lifts his head, and the wind tousles his hair, dragging strands across his cheekbones and lips. "Hajime-kun, this is your fault," he whispers before he leans in and their lips meet.

It probably is. But he's not the one totally at fault. Not when Souji grips him like this and shoves him against the tree and they are fighting for breath and sight and Saitou has no idea what to do with his hands (he finally settles them on Souji's waist). Souji is a myriad of tastes. The one Saitou can pick out the clearest is urgency. His time is slowly trickling out, with each cough, each fight for air, and each weakness that saps his strength. He shoves back with more kisses, as if he can possibly ease this, a little. His strength, if he shared it, would it prolong his life? Or would serve to only quicken the time?

Souji slumps against Saitou, shoulders heaving. He's hardly heavy and it is nothing for Saitou to hold him as they sink down in a pile. If only a kiss does that to him, if they took this further, what would it mean?

"I think I liked it better when Chizuru-chan fell on top of me." Souji licks the corner of his mouth. "Your body isn't like a woman's."

"I will not apologise for that."

"I didn't say I wanted an apology for that. But you need to work on your kisses, Hajime-kun." He smirks. "It's more than just lips touching. What did you think about my kiss? Better than yours, isn't it?"

The state of his ears gives away his state of mind all too clearly, and he tugs his scarf up in response to the laughter his blush produces.

It's been a while since he's last heard Souji laugh like that.

_**.end parts I - IV.**_


	2. V -- VIII

**A/N:** This fic isn't split up on AO3 because I wanted to get it out in time for the secret santa. I would've rather split it up into the parts itself. Oh well. it's a little late, but I can at least split it up here for slightly easier reading.

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><p><strong>V.<strong>

Is it easier to be awake, or asleep?

Okita says neither.

Both are bad.

Arm thrown over his face, he thinks of way to control his breathing, to slow his heart down. Sweat clings to everything and he can't seem to be rid of it. If he tosses off the covers, he shivers. If he pulls them up, he swears he'll die of suffocation. No amount of water or medicine will rid him of the need to cough or stop the excruciating paroxysm that leads to the taste of copper and bile choking his throat and filling his mouth.

When he takes his hand away from his mouth, he isn't staring at the blood. Rather, he's staring at the bones in his arm, quite visible even in moonlight. His skin almost matches his yukata, and he knows his face must be even worse.

Ochimizu begins to look more and more like an option. The tiny vial is underneath a corner of his futon, a gift from a supposedly grateful benefactor whom he saved. He gets the feeling that Nagumo Kaoru is made of lies and deceit and little else, but even so, he pulls the bottle out and holds it up. Red, brighter than the hue of his blood, glowing sickly against clear crystal. Sannan-san said it would cure illness. Kaoru said it would return his strength.

But he'd risk going mad. He'd risk losing more of himself than just his body is losing to this illness. Was that really worth it? On good days, his mind chooses to throw the vial into the furthest recesses of his mind. On bad days, he doesn't think it would be so bad to be like the monster he sometimes feels that he is.

Footsteps heading in his direction make him swiftly shove the medicine away. Probably Chizuru, coming to worry about him…

…no, while those steps are soft, they're not hesitant.

He sits up and leans over to shove one door panel aside, just as Saitou rounds the corner and stops to look down at him.

"I have my guesses why you're here," Okita says, voice low, "but I won't say them."

"This is but a side-track." Saitou shuts the door behind him. "I admit I'm worried."

"Your worry is noted." Unimpressed, Souji pulls his shoulders back and swallows forcibly to avoid coughing. "Join the crowd."

He knows that he's being mean, lashing out. But what do people understand? Illness is an isolating factor, and you can only take so much sympathy and concern without it feeling empty. Hijikata still wants to protect him, so does Kondou, and they're writing him off as an invalid who can't really help them anymore. Sannan only ever thinks about ochimizu. Shinpachi and Harada don't really do concern all that well. Chizuru…if he thinks about Chizuru, something worse than illness hurts.

But this is Saitou, who doesn't deserve this. When Saitou looks at him, he doesn't see pity or admonishment in those eyes. No emotions that belittle or condescend.

"What do you want?" he finally asks.

"Isn't it supposed to be a question of what you want?"

"Me? I thought I made it clear what I want." To die fighting, not lying in bed. Not this killer of a disease. He wants to be out swinging his sword, laughing at the fear in people's faces, striking them down as they scream. One less person to hurt Kondou-san. "It's not like you can grant it."

"No, I can't."

"You should leave."

"I would like to stay."

"Then stay. Sleep. Or stare at me. I don't care what you want to do. If you—_gh._"

He chokes and his vision hazes as he falls on his side, sputtering and gasping. Is this what fish feel like out of water? It's such a stupid comparison in his mind but this is exactly how he feels. His illness is the fishing line dragging him from the waters, choking air and life from him. Rebelling lungs that cause his eyes to water and his chest and back to hurt and everything seems to drain him even as the heat of fever lets him know he's still alive. His hands are full and he curses the blood that will probably make a mess. But a cloth is put before him even as his hand drops away, and someone holds him up as he wheezes and spits out the disgusting red.

Saitou wipes the blood away without a word. He does it the way he does everything else—efficiently. There are blood splatters on his scarf, but he still says nothing.

Okita looks at him, catching his breath and waiting for his pulse to slow. "I don't want you catching this. You should go." Ugh, his voice is horribly raspy.

"I do not fear death."

"You're not implying that I am, are you?"

"No."

"Then why are you here?" He pulls away and sits up, leaning his head heavily in the palm of his hand.

Saitou sits back on his heels, fingers tugging at his bloody scarf until it slides away. "It is not befitting of me to leave a comrade to face an enemy alone."

Rarely do people catch Okita off guard. Chizuru can, and Saitou can.

Everyone else calls this a tragedy—tuberculosis, the disease that saps a life away. Saitou thinks of it the way Okita does—a formidable enemy, with little hope of victory, but it didn't mean room for hopelessness.

Is that what Saitou meant by that kiss—Okita had called it a promise after all, for that's what first kisses are—that he'd be there?

Deliberately, he reaches out, hands cupping Saitou's face. His fingers are bloody, but blood has never bothered either of them. The two of them are more bloodstained than anyone else in the Shinsengumi, so what's a little more red? Saitou's skin is pale but not sickly like his; his warmth is different from the bone-aching fever that constantly burns in him.

"Don't expect me to be grateful."

"I don't expect anything."

"This isn't about feelings."

"Do swords have feelings?"

_No, no they don't, _Okita thinks as he sighs and allows the other to kiss him. His strength is slipping, and he sinks down on his back, arms tugging Saitou to follow. Swords just did what their masters wanted; they cut indiscriminately, and could even cut the hands of their masters.

He sucks on Saitou's lower lip, tugging gently until he hears the catch in Saitou's breath. Soft and barely noticeable, but it's there. However, it is Saitou who tugs the strip of cloth from his hair and combs it, callused fingers grazing his ear and neck and trailing down the middle of his chest.

Tantalising. Okita shrugs; that's all he has to do for fabric to fall away from him; all his clothes are loose on him these days, and he yanks Saitou's hands to press them to his bare skin that is burning and needs something of a different heat. The other responds, splaying fingers across his chest and kneading skin and muscles.

If he uses his imagination, he can pretend the action helps. That it takes away some of the pain. If only. So instead of imagining, he focuses on what is before him. He tugs their clothing out of the way and tangles his hands in dark long hair. He kisses furiously, as if this were a fight. Gentleness is not really in his realm, and he knows that Saitou can take harshness. So he drags his fingernails down Saitou's back, feeling him arch and then hold still, poised. He nibbles on an ear and finds there is something gratifying about the way the other blushes and almost moans.

Maybe he's a little eager. They move a little too much, and he can hear the sound of something delicate falling out of the blankets and rolling.

It might as well have been someone slamming the doors open on them.

Saitou's grip on his shoulder actually hurts; he says nothing, but his eyes—

Okita meets that look. _You would, too, if you were me._

_I dare you._

_I dare you to pick that up and throw it away or break it._

_Can you do that?_

Something softens between them, and that's when he is hit with a flutter of illness that has absolutely nothing to do with his tuberculosis. False hope, that's these feelings are. Kindness is crueller than reality, always. He shoves out his arm and sends the vial rolling further away until it's tumbled into a dark corner. And then he wrenches Saitou, slamming teeth and chins together and uncaring that his lip bleeds. What's a little more blood, anyway?

_Fuck everything._

Just let him forget. Let him drown in something that isn't decisions, worry, attempts, or sympathy. Saitou's good at reading people, and Okita has so many defences down. So let him read this, and write his reply with his touches.

He can almost forget he's ill. Flushed skin, loud pulses, heavy breathing, sweat clinging to both of them—it makes him he feels alive. While it's different from the hum and clash of battle, this is just as intense.

Intensity is exactly what he misses.

So when Saitou slips the palm of his hand a little lower, he closes his eyes and loses himself, for a little while. Actually, he doesn't care what Saitou does, so as long as he _does not stop_.

There's room for returning the favour, though. He reaches out with his own hand and suddenly their fingers are tangled together, crushing and insistent and impossibly tight. He decides that he likes watching Saitou slowly unravelling, the way he can feel himself coming apart. He fuses their lips together as their bodies rock in an erratic pattern that becomes increasingly insistent.

But Saitou still holds back, he can tell when he slows, slightly. "I'm not going to break, Hajime-kun," he breathes out, tongue darting out for another taste. Saitou is smells of soap, oil, and something akin to flowers but he's not sure. He's sure of the taste—Saitou is the same as him. They live as swords, by the sword, and probably will die by the sword unless he dies from this damned sickness. The aura of blood and danger is written in their skin and apparent in their eyes and mouths. It's their purpose for living.

But he feels that purpose has slipped away from him. Pulled away, leaving him behind the dust, dying by his own wretched lungs. He could envy Saitou; he could dig his nails in, leave marks behind on skin—to vent the helplessness he feels.

Saitou is a reminder of what he isn't anymore.

But, right now, he doesn't want anyone else in his room.

"Really, I'm not going to break," he repeats, squeezing tighter. He's stopped looking directly at the other. "But I'd like to forget…for a little while."

There is something in him that gentleness can't soothe. It needs mastering. He forces himself to lean back, to curl his fingers in Saitou's hair and hold him, and to relinquish a small part of himself that no one has ever seen. For once, he's thankful for his wheezing; it masks the moments he almost loses himself and his throat tightens up.

And Saitou? He understands. He changes his touch, clutching with a firmness that is almost shocking, and he presses his teeth to Okita's shoulder, though he doesn't exactly bite. His kisses are probably leaving bruises but Okita doesn't care—it's colour. It's purple and blue and red and it shows he's actually alive, not this sickly, whitened, jaundiced shadow of himself.

When they reach a point of no return, when Okita yields and Saitou gives—he can, for a few seconds, actually feel something that isn't pain and the sounds drawn out of him aren't from discomfort. It's not that anything has really changed. He's weary of this life, weary of being weak. No words of comfort are going to help. No amount of medicines would work miracles. This is not happiness. This is not love. This is not a cure.

But when Saitou lies down next to him, their inhales and exhales matching like the marks they have left on each other's bodies, Okita can at least say he can remember what it is to be alive. They're not sparring, but they're together, and like this—it could be called traces of that which is familiar and that which he has been longing for. His blood and body remembers and maybe tonight he can even perhaps sleep better.

He makes sure their hands are touching when they fall asleep. How else is he supposed to say thank you (aside from not making any comments on how Saitou's face looked when the calm façade slips as he's pushed over an edge)? For once, the ochimizu, like how it rolled into a corner, it out of sight and out of mind, not burning into the edge of his shoulder reminding him how short his life truly is and how decisions are forced upon him.

**VI.**

He is not shocked when Souji takes the ochimizu. He's more worried about the silver bullets. That, and the emotional toll. Souji, for all his joking and teasing, keeps a tight hold over just how deeply things affected him. Instead of getting angry the way Shinpachi does, he goes out and kills because that is his outlet. It's hardly a good one but even Saitou himself can't say anything. It's all within reasonable "borders," one could argue.

All for the _kyokuchou_. Striking down enemies. And so forth.

But he hardly has time to think about these things. Little by little, things escalated. Sannan-san sets out those vials, one of which he takes for himself. And then Hijikata drinks it…and, oh yes, the death tolls rises. Inoue-san and Yamazaki are gone. Before he knows it, they're on a ship heading back to Edo. He sees little of Souji after they reach their destination, having been thrown into more duties than ever. He gets the feeling they're fighting a slow, losing battle, but his heart doesn't question it. His morals aren't in peril. This is still his place, this side that he has chosen to fight on.

However, after they were told to go to Koufu Castle, he takes a little time aside to think. To muse. And visit. From what he knows, Souji gets very little visitors. His name is spoken less. Even Kondou-san and Hijikata say little. By now it is known among all the captains that he is not only rasetsu, but very nearly an invalid. He couldn't just leave without saying something. Maybe it is more than just a goodbye to a comrade, but Saitou doesn't have the time to analyse such feelings.

Souji greets him with a compliment. "I think this suits you," he says, appraising the Western-style clothing. "Although…"

"Although what?"

"I didn't think you would actually cut your hair. And did you lose your scarf somewhere?"

"No." That was still in his possessions. "And cutting it was necessary."

"I see." Souji grimaces. "I guess it'll be my turn…whenever I rejoin all of you."

He sees pale hands grip the blankets. The truth is there, bare and painful, but it's not his place to say it or question Souji's judgment at this point. He'd be a hypocrite.

"Why are you here?"

"Am I not allowed to visit?"

"I didn't say that." But even as his words hold defiance, his posture relaxes.

It's been two or three months. Since…well, since they've been together. Timing is one thing, and Souji's condition is another. Said time hasn't been all that kind to him. Even with the ochimizu, his life is still wasting away.

"Maybe it's time we spoke plainly," Saitou begins.

"About?"

"I think you know."

"Me? Or this?"

"Many things."

"Hajime-kun, does it look like I care about the finer details?" Souji sighs and lays back, head on his arms. "There are some things that require thinking, but some things that I don't question."

"Are you saying you are simply going to keep writing this off until you die?"

"I you saying I'm taking you for granted that you're here? No!" The older man suddenly snaps, but then quiets a second after. "But you can't expect me to look at you without thinking about…myself."

"I am hardly putting blame on you." Saitou knows. He knows very well. They both are swords, to be used for purposes until they were no longer useful or until their life ran out. They had a tenacity that most people respected, a skill that was feared and known. The only difference lay in the amount of life they were imparted with. Saitou is beginning to think he's gained what Souji has lost—his life will probably run long, and Souji's could end tomorrow. "The blame lies with me," he continues. "Maybe I shouldn't have—"

If their roles were switched, he wondered how he would take it. Perhaps more quietly than Souji's outbursts of anger or sullen, simmering frustration, but it would take its toll. It would hurt. It would chafe. It would drive him to do things like take the ochimizu and probably get shot.

"Don't give me that." Probably every time Souji looks at him, these same thoughts cross his mind. He doesn't hate him, for sure, but looking at him is a reminder.

Maybe they're both too familiar with pain and how sometimes, it's less painful to confront than it is be shut away. And some pain let you know that you are alive and you are still fighting.

He doesn't keep track of the number of times they've done this, but even so he knows it's been at least maybe ten. Certainly more. It's hardly unfamiliar territory when their shoulders touch as he moves closer. Souji usually smelled of metal and blood and wind and something that reminded him of the sky, but these days it's more like a scent of bitter herbs with a stain of blood.

"Are you feeling sorry for me yet?"

"I shan't until you feel sorry for yourself."

Souji snorts; the movement jolts Saitou a little but he doesn't move much.

"Hijikata-san was here…yesterday." A nod at the box of clothing. "He isn't stopping me. I think he gave up."

Was that sadness, or satisfaction? Where did Souji's resentment of Hijikata start? Where did it end in something that could be something vaguely close to respect that he'd never say that out loud? "And Kondou-san?"

As soon as he says Kondou's name, Souji's face breaks into something bitter. "He can't seem to come to terms with this."

"'This'?"

"The fact that there are four captains who are rasetsu. It's not even about whether or not I can follow him. But was it ever about that?"

"Souji—"

"I cared more than he cared. There are some things I don't doubt, about Kondou-san. He cares for me and he thinks of me as a younger brother. However," The dark shadows are more prominent when he closes his eyes, "I've simply run out of time and it looks as if Hijikata will support him for a long while."

Saitou keeps his gaze trained on the floor to keep from seeing what he knows is in those eyes.

"But I'm still going to go. I don't care if no one is asking me or if they're not waiting for me. I'll still go. I'll—"

"I'll wait." Saitou interrupts the litany.

"Oh?"

"I said I would wait." He waits for the rebuffs, the usual teasing.

But it never comes. Souji's eyes, usually as sharp as his tongue, aren't exactly soft, but they're holding too much emotion and when Saitou looks at him, he cannot stop himself from tucking a strand of hair behind Souji's ear. He lets his finger trace down a jawline, and maybe a little lower…

And then they stop themselves. Well, not exactly stop. More like Saitou drops his hand and offers a kiss instead. Some things they can't bear, but this—this they could.

"You're going to have to do this yourself," Souji says, somewhat breathlessly, tugging at his clothes. "I'm not used to these buttons."

He's not exactly used to them himself, either. But he remembers well enough, unclasping all the annoying little things and shedding layer after layer. Only after he pulls off his vest does he remember he has gloves on. He ignores the laugh from the other—Souji's going to have to get used them, too, if he's joining.

But finally they're off and done with—he's shirtless and they're kissing again. He actually isn't sure why kisses are part of this or why kisses felt like this. Maybe it was a trained reaction, from what people say and do and it's accepted that kissing is always a part of sleeping with someone else.

He's gotten better at them, in any case. Souji no longer makes mock-jibes at them, but nibbles back as a flush spreads over his face. It's gratifying to see colour in his face, even if only for minutes. By now he's knows the sensitive spot on Souji's neck that makes him sigh in something other than pain, and how he seems to like hands pressed along the inside of his thighs.

Although, it's a little hard to focus when the other grazes his sides and sucks on an earlobe, and then takes his fingers into his mouth, tongue swirling in little patterns and making his mind go southwards. It's like he can suddenly visualise more colours and hear things more clearly, but at the same time everything pulls him towards only feeling one thing. So maybe he's not all himself by the time Souji pushes him down and fumbles with his belt and yet more foreign clasps.

"You're not going to help?"

"You're going to have to get used to them," Saitou says, expression on his face unchanging.

"Hm." Souji isn't one to roll his eyes, but the one word implies he did.

This isn't like their usual times. Usually they talk less, but it's clear they both are thinking about the same thing, the thing they don't ever bring up. Souji keeps up some foolish remarks that leave him blushing but it's distracting enough and eventually they switch to a pace they're both familiar with. No more words. No more thoughts.

Merciless in battle, and merciless in bed. That phrase sounds incredibly stupid in his head, but in a way, it makes sense. Somehow Saitou remembers, barely, to slam the sliding door shut with his foot as Souji slides down his body and touches him in a way only he can. He buries his face in blankets that smell like Souji—whether it's to muffle sounds or hide his face, he doesn't. Maybe both. Until he can't stand it anymore and he yanks Souji up for another kiss, both of them so winded their visions swim and his head crashes against the floor.

"Sorry," Souji says, though he doesn't really sound it.

Saitou pushes back at him, half-heartedly. Souji is still injured and he's holding himself back; his usual habit would be to shove with far more force. "I don't think I've ever heard you say that sincerely."

"Wait, for real?" The other actually pauses.

"…" he thinks for a moment. "For real."

"It isn't as if you have given me a reason. Let's see…should I apologise for accidentally getting you in trouble? Over haiku? Or maybe over the cat…"

Surreal, that's what it is. Here they are, more or less naked, Souji kneeling over him with one hand on his knee while his mind is away thinking about cats and haiku.

"…_Souji_."

"Hai?"

"Could you…" he gestures. Words stick in his throat. For a moment he considers telling Souji to shut up, but even that seems so out of place.

He didn't really come here to speak. Most of the time, it's Souji doing the speaking, while he answers with his silence or with a few sentences. He knows more about Souji than Souji knows about him.

"I'm not myself, am I?" Souji suddenly lies down next to him. "I can tell. I've changed, and hardly for the better." Exhaustion. Weariness. And not just physically. "Yet you still visit."

"Who am I to judge you for things we can't control?"

"It always comes down to that, doesn't it. Control." Souji tastes the word, and then grimaces like he would very much like to spit it out. "What control do we even have?"

Plenty, he would say, but Souji isn't exactly looking for answers. He can tell. When Souji wants advice, he'd make it clear. Right now, Souji is pushing Saitou's bangs out of his face, before he kisses him in a tell-tale manner, the kiss that's asking for permission.

Saitou press his tongue back, breathing slow as he catches Souji's look. _Yes_.

In way, like this, they toss control back and forth. Sometimes it's him, sometimes it's Souji. As always, unease in the pit of stomach pools at first, because it's just more than his body that is exposed. It feels like his mind is a little raw, as well. Most of the time he keeps his eyes shut. Occasionally he keeps them open.

"Say." Souji suddenly stops his movements, jerking him out of his thoughts. "You're not…doing all of this for me, are you?"

He silently considers answers, picking them up and casting them aside while Souji waits, tensely.

"It isn't simply about you."

"Just how much do you actually know about me, Hajime-kun? After all these years…"

"I know enough." Souji isn't aware of it, but many of things he says or does…those actions wanted attention. An attention that hadn't been given, an attention that's needed. "This is for the both of us."

He thinks, he probably knows Souji better than Souji knows himself.

Pain needs validation, justification. Or else, after all this time, if didn't have that, it would mean Okita Souji has been hurting in vain.

It's worse than being unneeded.

Saitou knows this because these thoughts have run through his mind. Over and over. Hijikata acknowledges him and very time he does, he makes him happy that he's been of help. And Souji feels the same way whenever Kondou tells him he did good.

But never has Kondou looked at Souji the way he looks at Hijikata.

And Saitou cannot do anything about that, but if they stand in the same room he can feel pain radiating from Souji, the pain that most people don't see.

"I don't want you to think I'm using you." It's an enigma how a person can understand so many things about themselves, yet miss certain facts that others could see.

"You're not." Saitou quick to reassure that. "I…" He…what? Would've let him use him? Won't have? What was this even called.

Souji's eyes are bright, but he doesn't like the way they seem to scrutinise him. Once again, this is drawing into territory they've never spoken of.

Instead, he drags his fingernails down the other's shoulder blades, not hard enough to break skin, but enough to leave white scratches and sting that immediately redirects everything. Yes, he's as good as Souji is at this. He can shove his knee between the other's legs and his fingers stroke purposefully, and then feel both of them coming apart.

It's easier to kiss then to think about how it all started. It's even easier to enjoy something than pick apart a conversation with his mind. It's easier to lie here, holding another to himself, then it is to wonder about feelings and emotions and if what they're doing is right or wrong. It's easier to cry out and be blinded by your own pleasure than it is to think about consequences, about how while all of this seems to help them, it seems to damage them in other ways.

He can tell.

He's sure Souji can tell as well.

He can tell in the way they complete each other, the way they finish, how they don't let go of each other, though Souji has to shift in order to breath because he jostled his injuries and because he has to cough.

Every time, Saitou loses himself a little more, and gains yet more of Souji. He listens to tortured lungs while he himself breathes normally, and he finally ends up pressing his thumbs to Souji's neck and rubbing gently in hopes of alleviating some of the agitation. Until Souji stops him and they lie with an inch between them.

Souji's pulse still tingles in his fingers, which he can't get rid of, no matter how he curls his fingers.

Blessing or curse? Good or bad? Right or wrong?

He just hopes they haven't fucked up.

But as Souji's breathing slows and he's fallen asleep, Saitou shifts until their backs are against each other.

This is the last time they'll ever do this.

He wants to keep it as long as he can, before war takes them down paths of destruction.

**VII.**

Hitting Hijikata would've been quite satisfactory. Pain is pain. Except he's more upset by the fact the pain in Hijikata's eyes matches his.

It's unfair.

He's never hated Hijikata, just hated his actions. Resented him. But in this moment, there is so much loathing he wonders if he actually does hate him, Hijikata Toshizou, for the person that he is.

Kondou Isami is dead. He didn't even get the death he deserved. But what stings more is that Okita had not been there. No, he'd been attempting to try to breath while another man lost his _head_.

Even as he storms off, he hears footsteps behind him.

He does not want to see Saitou right now.

Because Saitou still had his purpose, in front of him. Injured and broken Hijikata may be, but he is still around for Saitou to faithfully follow.

"I didn't come here for a lecture, Hajime-kun," he says as he stops. Chizuru has long given up running after him, and he can't tell if he's relieved or disappointed. He hadn't ever figured out what she meant to him, or if…there are ever been anything. Besides, Hijikata, stupid or not, has a claim on her by the look in her eyes and the fondness when she says his name.

Saitou isn't Chizuru, though.

"What do you want?"

"Souji."

"It's over, isn't it. The Shinsengumi."

"Not while one man remains standing."

"Is that it? So Hijikata's going to become the Shinsengumi and you'll follow him until the death."

"Not exactly." Saitou's words are cryptic enough that Okita finally looks at him.

"Then what do you want?"

"I want to know where you're going."

"That's the eternal question, isn't it. And I don't know."

"You are still part of the Shinsengumi."

"No, I'm not." He feels his face twist into a bitter smile. "I stopped being part of the Shinsengumi when they sent me away. I was never going to be able to fully join."

"It—"

"You knew that, too."

_You're just too kind to say it. _

"There simply isn't hope for me anymore. For rasetsu. Even Hijikata's going to end up messing up, but I hope he doesn't make Chizuru-chan cry more than is necessary."

It's not as if saying makes him feel better. But Saitou has always allowed him the freedom to say what he wants.

"Are you going to wander, then? Until death takes you?"

"Maybe."

Suddenly Saitou is up in his face, grabbing him by his jacket. "I cannot accept that." Yet his voice is still quiet. Too quiet.

"You'll make me stay?"

"This isn't just about you or me, it's about—"

"I. don't. care." He shakes his head. "I've never cared. I just wanted to stay with Kondou-san, help him become the greatest…but now, he's gone." And he didn't even have a chance to say goodbye. "What other reasons do I have to stay?"

Saitou is silent, but there is tension in his hands.

"Give me one good reason."

"…"

He doesn't expect Saitou to collapse on him in that instant. Unprepared, they tumble and Okita hits his head painfully before he feels Saitou scrambling away from him, his breaths sounding weak and…pained?

"Haji—" Whatever he's about to say it lost; Saitou is rasetsu. The white hair and red eyes are a dead giveaway, and it shouldn't have been startling after years of seeing them.

Except this is Saitou.

"When did you—?" Okita sits up, and reaches for him, muttering a few choice swears under his breath. "Damn it, Saitou."

Saitou shoves him away, face going pale. "You…have no place…to s-say anything," he chokes out as he tries to stand but trips on his own feet.

No, no he doesn't.

"Is this your first time? Second?" The last he saw of Saitou wasn't very recent, but neither was it in the past. He didn't even think there was any ochimizu left. Colour him wrong.

"Does it…matter?"

"It does, actually." Okita grips him by the shoulders. "Because the longer you go without the blood, the more it hurts. Didn't anyone tell you that?"

"Didn't ask." Saitou closes his eyes and ends up knocking his chin into Souji's shoulder.

"Why did you even take it? The last I checked, you could still fight and you weren't dying."

"It's…it didn't seem right."

"What didn't seem right?"

"Being—being the only member of the Sh-shinsengumi who wasn't…"

Is this Hijikata's fault? Is it Sannan's fault? Or is it his fault? He doesn't fucking know anymore. Saitou's fingers hurt against his arms, grinding into muscle and bone as he lets out soft sounds of pain and his eyes are half-glazed.

Okita can't stand it. Saitou almost never shows pain, which is something he's rather envied. But they're both good at hiding what they didn't wish others to see.

But never before has he heard Saitou actually whimpering. Fear pricks him, as he remembers the times he's had to deal with this misery. There's that medicine which helped some, but he's long since run out ever since it stopped being effective.

Maybe this is all sorts of wrong and not the right way to go, but he's had to do what he can to survive until now. And so will Saitou. Without pondering it too much, Okita yanks his glove off and partially unsheathes his wakizashi and slides the back of his hand against the blade. His blood is probably terrible but it'll do, right?

Saitou shoves at him. Tries to pull away even though his eyes are fixed on the blood slowly dripping down Souji's wrist and arm.

"Hajime-kun—"

"_No_."

He's terrible at this. It took him forever to take his first drink of blood too. But he doesn't want Saitou to bear what he had to. "Look. Just think of it…as what we've been doing before. No one has to know, and no one cares, and this is…" He swallows. "This is just between us." How's that for reassurance? Maybe Chizuru's rubbed off a little on him.

Saitou looks as if he very much wants to argue, but then he shudders and finally presses his mouth over the cut. The grip on his arm eases.

"You'll be fine…" It's an odd sensation, of someone drinking your blood. Souji wonders if he should be doing something else, like a distraction…patting Saitou on the back seemed ridiculous, but he's still holding him up and so he ends up running his fingers through his hair. He can hear every swallow and every inhalation and it's finally slowing down.

"I miss you having long hair," he suddenly says, fingers still in Saitou's hair. "You looked better with it. I'm not sure how you managed to always keep it neat, but maybe you take after Hijikata-san in that department."

A hand grips his and without thinking, he clasps it tight.

"You—"

The words die in his throat when he catches Saitou's gaze.

Souji tenses. Has Saitou ever looked at him like that? Has he ever felt like this? A strange warmth, a weird tightness tugging at him, a sense of longing—

But then Saitou pulls away a little too hastily, awkwardly licking his lips, while Souji wipes his hand and it is painfully silent as they try to gather their thoughts.

They can't.

There isn't room for it.

"Better?" Souji hears himself ask. His voice doesn't sound like his own.

Saitou stands. "If you wish to leave, do it in the morning." Unshakeable, once again, if not for the tone in his voice that matches his own.

The moment was there and then it's now gone. "Is that it?"

"And thank you."

It's hard to even look at Saitou's profile. "You would've done it for me, no?"

"Don't ask me that."

"Sorry."

Unable to think of anything else to say, Souji turns. It's not morning at all but he can't stay any longer.

Were they stronger or weaker because this? Did they help each other, or break each other?

He's out of time to figure this out.

He can only walk faster, and try to clear his mind, wondering why his heart seems to hurt. If he had more time, maybe if they had different opportunities, he'd think more on this.

But it'd be unfair to Saitou who is going to live longer than he is.

…is it so bad, to want happiness?

But being a sword is easier than being a person, and as he furiously scrubs at his hand to get rid of the blood marks, he knows he has made his choice.

He doesn't look back, and he knows that Saitou wouldn't, either.

**VIII.**

Try as he might, he can't forget the taste of blood. Souji's blood. But even more so, he remembers how Souji stroked his hair, with an amount of gentleness that was unlike him.

He wouldn't say it haunted him, these thoughts, but they would sit in his mind uncomfortably even as he pushes them away in order to concentrate on more important things. They know things about each other that no one has had the privilege of knowing, shared in situations unseen…

He shouldn't have let Souji walk away. But could he have said? Comfort didn't seem right, and no amount of words would do the job, either.

But it's hard to only focus on this, when he hears the death toll. Sannan, Sanosuke…he doesn't blame Chizuru for crying and it's a little hard to watch her cry without him wondering if he ought to do something.

She does make him promise to survive, which he readily agrees to, just to see her tired face light up.

Even so, Saitou expects he'll die today. But it doesn't dampen his energy, nor that of Heisuke's. They still swing their swords, they still right. They'll keep doing so until they can't.

But it's a little too soon, when he has to hold Heisuke in his arms, and then watch as the youngest captain of the Shinsengumi disappear in a brilliant flash of blue flash and there is only ash. No time for goodbyes, no time for reassurances. No time even for a proper burial.

A little numbed, he finds himself nearly skewered even as he turns and is about to evade the blow, but there is someone there.

"_A_-_re_? It's not like you to be distracted."

"…"

He does not expect Souji.

"Why are you here?" he asks as the rasetsu crumbles away and there is nothing between them.

"Oh, you know me," is Souji's casual reply as he easily ducks a sword blow and guts a rasetsu without even looking. "I can't stay out of a good fight."

Saitou doesn't know if he's supposed to be happy, relieved, angry, or all of those emotions. But if Souji can be flippant, so can he. "You're late," he says as he takes out another enemy.

"Nice to know I'm missed. But you're making a mistake, Hajime-kun."

"A mistake?"

"Didn't they ever say not to engage in a battle by yourself?"

"And you have the right to say anything?"

Their shoulders touch as they back up against a wall to survey the amount of soldiers. Souji's face twists in what could be an apologetic smile, but there's an underlying smirk. The one that he's missed. "No, I don't."

"Then…are we—?" The smirk loses some of its sharpness.

This is hardly the time and place, but Saitou offers a rare smile.

Because fighting didn't involve feelings. Whatever…whatever it is that they haven't figured out between them, they could leave it behind the instant they stepped into a battlefield.

To an outsider, they're two monsters among monsters, fighting like gods of destruction meting out punishment and judgment. Or is it revenge? Even as his arm gets slashed and some fatigue is creeping up on him, he feels more alive than ever. This is what he is meant to do, what he is best at. What others find violent is his tranquillity. Souji he can hear is engaged as well—

Until coughs shatter this paradoxical peace. "Souji!" He cuts down a few more rasetsu before running to the other. "Are you all right?"

Souji blinks up at him and then turns his head to spit out red. "I'm fine, this is…happening a little more often now." His breathing hitches but he manages to stand up again. "So don't worry. Are you with me?"

"Of course."

And then they're off again. Reasoning tells Saitou they're going too fast, burning up their lives too quickly, but the amount of enemies, the necessity to quickly finish this—he can't help it. He loses track of Souji but he can hear the screams of other men. Finally, they're rid of all them, this cursed army. No more screams, no more attacks. He pauses to catch his breath, sweat running down his face. He counts to ten and feels his rasetsu form fading back. Dust stings his eyes; he looks for the other man. "Souji, there—"

The dust clears and he can make out a familiar form.

He doesn't expect to see Souji stake his sword in the ground before falling on his hands and knees in a fit of coughing.

There's so much blood and he thinks, _it can't be all his_…

But then Souji noisily coughs again and he suddenly feels ill as he watches blood pours out and doesn't stop. The sight of blood doesn't usually make him sick but this…

"Souji!" How rare for him to panic, for anything to clutch at his heart and make him falter. Somehow he manages to catch the other before he hits the ground.

"I already knew." Blood bubbles from Souji's mouth as he laughs and chokes. "I…knew I wouldn't make it out of this fight. I guess it's true if you live by the sword, you die by the sword."

Saitou checks him over—a head gash, but nothing serious in terms of injuries. All the blood is from tattered lungs giving out. In the end, it really is tuberculosis that kills him.

He wants to say something, anything. Anything to cover the sounds of a comrade dying. But when Souji gulps air and finally stops choking, body and limbs slack, he wishes for sound, because silence means the end draws nearer. He didn't know when he reached for Souji's hand, or when Souji took it, gripping it with a force that belied the weakness in the rest of his body.

It's not that he didn't know. He knew months, maybe years ago. But knowing and being unable to stop it, and letting it play out in front of you—that's messed up. How does fate allow that? How is that even fair?

"Ne," Souji's voice shatters the silence. "You'll stay, right?"

_Until the end._

Somehow, he nods, not trusting his voice.

Blood trickles down grey, pallid skin, between their fingers, and then drips and forms puddles on the street. The sun hurts, but no worse than his heart. He keeps his eyes trained on Souji's throat, on every swallow he takes, and listens to the quiet yet awful sound of ruined lungs that still attempt to take in air.

Somehow, it's worse than Heisuke. Heisuke, with a shaky grin, clutching at his arms and his desperate last words "was I of some use?" before he slumped and became dust. Too fast. Souji's fingernails dig into the palm of his hand. No sounds of pain, no last teasing. Just shadows under his eyes, bruises of illness that could not be formed by any external violence, and blood that threatens to choke him. Now it's too slow, like someone is gutting him slowly until he actually wants death to come more quickly.

Saitou cannot look him in the eye. Things you just he can't face without flinching or without it showing on your face. He refuses to connect his mind to his heart, lest it breaks him.

"Hajime-kun?" Souji breathes out his name with a wet cough, and grips his arm tighter. "It's…cold."

Or maybe he already broke something, the instant he knew Souji was ill. It feels like his true self is very far away when he somehow manages sit up, to gather the other man into his arms, and rest a limp head on his shoulder. Because Souji doesn't except him to cry. Souji doesn't except overt, ardent last words either. Souji has never expected anything out of him, except his presence. The one you stood next to when you fought, watching each other's backs, shared drinks…and by the end, shared beds and blood.

Trust, not love.

They didn't have to sleep together. They didn't even have to fight together. But they're together, nonetheless.

The least he can do is make sure Souji does not leave this world alone.

"Hijikata-san is going to be mad at me if he finds out…"

Unexpectedly, Saitou could laugh. _You're dying, and all you can say is that fukuchou will be mad? He'll be livid. He'll probably demand the full story. He'll ask why didn't you stay in bed, why did you fight. He'll yell at me and I will probably have to apologise for you. You just gave me the worst responsibility, didn't you._

"What do you want me to tell him?" The bleeding's slowed, and if he were under the pretence that Souji is going to better, then it's a good sign. "If I meet him again."

"Ah…" A slow blink, and then a shudder. "That he owes me an apology. And…" Souji closes his eyes, and Saitou has to stop himself from opening them. "You better tell Chizuru-chan that I'm sorry too."

"_Hai_."

"…Hajime." Not Saitou. Not Hajime-kun. Souji sucks in air sharply and his eyes flutter open. They're green instead of the unnatural red—something bursts in Saitou's chest and he bites the inside of his mouth as the white hair gains colour and is more brown, not quite the original shade, but it's enough.

"Thank you." Souji frees his hand; blood has caked their skin together and it stings when he pulls away. His fingers are warm against Saitou's cheek. "I thought I might have to die as a rasetsu, but…here I am, dying the way I want to. All because it's H-Hijikata-san's…fault…he won't get any thanks though. He's r-ruined my life enough. But I'm a fool for…for letting him."

Saitou's hold on his emotions crack, a little. "Souji, you're not making sense—"

Lungs hitch. Souji grins, blood leaking through his teeth while his fingers brush something from Saitou's face. "Seriously?"

He merely shakes his head, unable to form words.

"Take your time, Hajime." The hand falls, and Souji closes his eyes even he gasps out his final words. "I'll be…waiting…for you to catch up."

And then he's gone.

Who's the fool here? Probably him, as he kneels in the middle of a bloodbath, covered in ash with a ripped up sword and bloody bandages next to him. He presses his forehead to the ground as exhaustion sets in, coupled by grief.

Heisuke and Souji. The two he never outright called friends, but they knew. But _Souji_. Souji was sunlight with shadows and he could kill without a second thought, but he was more sincere than most people that he's known. It was never about…about sleeping together or the physical aspects, but the trust—

Who else would stand at his right? Read his movements? The only person who could joke with him and not make it awkward?

Life rarely waits for those who grief. Saitou stands, letting the ash fall from his hands and clothing. He takes care not to trod on it as he wipes blood and sweat from his face, though this second action is half-hearted. There is still blood on his cheek, the last of Souji, and he can't quite rid himself of that. Not yet.

His gaze rests on Souji's sword, still stuck into the ground. On an impulse, he pulls it out. The metal makes a dull sound, as if it knew its master were gone. The grip is unfamiliar, yet familiar because he can still perfectly picture a grinning, brown-haired samurai swinging it.

It would have been perfect, if they had gone together. Comrades together. War has a sick sense of humour; it takes the bravest and leaves the uncertain in its wake. It kills some and wounds others, and makes monsters of everyone.

Why is he alive?

Another time, another year, he might have considered _hara-kiri_. However Souji told him to take his time. Only Souji would die with a smile like that. It is this smile that helps him to straighten his shoulders and take a step forward.

"Yukimura-kun will cry," he admonishes softly as he stumbles and catches himself against a crumbling wall. "And Hijikata-san will be angry with me."

_I also expect an apology, for leaving like that._

_Did you think it was all this simple?_

_Did you think that this wouldn't affect us? Affect me?_

A wind picks up, and a strip of the bandage still on the hilt of Souji's katana slaps him on the side of the neck before it curls against his chin. He presses a hand over his mouth. A smile? A sob? He can't figure out what sound escapes him means. Souji was a tragedy from a moment he was born, and tragedies always have a way of drawing in people who care about them. It's unfair. Saitou's thankfully used to injustice, but the thought still echoes in his thoughts.

He didn't expect feelings to be the worst betrayal of all.

But now it's his duty to bear consequences, until they meet again post-death. Whatever theories people had on afterlives, something tells him they would meet again.

Call it a warrior's instinct, and the fact Souji's warmth hasn't left the broken katana that he holds in his right hand.

**_.end._**

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><p><strong>AN: **This isn't a ship so much as it is an exploration of what-ifs and maybe "friends with benefits" but hopefully in an unclichéd way. Souji and Saitou I'm okay with either shipping and not-shipping. I have too much love for Souji/Chizuru; in the anime, Souji definitely has a soft side for Chizuru. But what annoyed me is that in every route but his own, he more or less disappears. Illness is a disabling and isolating factor, but I can't imagine Saitou forgetting about him. In Saitou's route, he asks about Souji and Chizuru notes that he seemed sad that they couldn't fight alongside each other anymore.

I don't really think of them as secret lovers with a passion and a "love that will cure all things." But arguably, Saitou and Souji depend on each other in way that differs from how they depend on Chizuru in their own routes. They don't have to say it, but they understand each other's fears and determinations because from the first time they met, they already knew. So. What if they took it one step further, because sleeping together can either make a break a relationship. It can either fuck people up or bring them closer. It's not meant as a cure, but it can be a kind of remedy. However, I'm speaking from reasoning, not from experience. Lmao I don't even know anyone who is in a "friends with benefits" kind of relationship. But Souji and Saitou have always got along. Saitou lets Souji joke with him, and even jokes back. Souji sort of indulges Saitou in a lot of things. And when they fight together? Gosh I wish we could've seen more of them doing that.

And what if feelings did form? Take the cue from their personal routes—Saitou takes forever to say anything. And Souji will play it off until he can't anymore. Souji understands life is unfair, but hey, this is what fate handed to him. He'll take it. He'll fight as long as he can. Without Chizuru as a factor, their lives are darker. So they don't talk about love or comfort or future lives. They don't have to. They only have _now_, as the only time. In some ways, the times they're together in this fic is like a hint of the possible passionate love they could have under different circumstances. Sex without love is possible. Love is also possible without sex. But you can still have fondness for a person you don't end up with for the rest of your life. That's a form of love; love has too many shades so this is just one of them. Or some of them.

…I have no idea if those notes made any sense. But that's my attempt at understanding this relationship. Oddly, theirs isn't all that unhealthy. Hijikata/Saitou, for one, would come with a lot of confusion and guilt on both sides before they accepted it for what it is because they actually trust each other more than they realise. Souji/ Saitou I feel has more or less from the beginning marked out what they want, what they need, and they give and take easily. And I'll stop there because I'd end up leaving my thoughts on every possible pairing in Hakuouki.

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><p><strong>Last notes (I promise):<strong>

I pretty much fucked up the timeline so here's just a quick run down for each of the parts as to what is what and what is AU

_Game Canon_

I. Post-Reimeiroku and pre-main game. Because I needed a way to start this fic.

II. Post-Ikedaya Incident. According to RL facts, Souji wasn't carried in.

III. The night before Saitou and Heisuke leave with Itou's faction. Saitou is way too good at keeping secrets.

IV. After Saitou and Heisuke become part of the Guardians of the Imperial Tomb but before Aburano Koji/Heisuke getting injured and becoming a rasetsu; in Saitou's Memories it's told that he goes back and forth. Chizuru thought she was hallucinating when he visited her.

_Anime Canon_

V. A little after Kaoru give Souji the ochimizu but before Kondou gets shot

VI. Sekkaroku; the Shinsengumi are in Edo and getting ready to head to Koufu Castle

_AU_

VII. Mix of Sekkaroku and Hijikata's route in the main game. In Hijikata's route, Saitou takes the ochimizu, but in Sekkaroku he didn't. Souji shows up in Sekkaroku, but not the game. Hence the mix. (It wouldn't be a Hakuouki fic without one blood drinking scene mentioned…)

VIII. AU of _Hakuouki: Shikon Soukyuu_ with influences from _Hakumyu: Saito-route_. So I basically had Souji showing up to give Saitou a hand (like he does in the musical) with the line about not engaging in a battle one-on-one. For those who haven't seen it, I=in the movie, Souji died when Saitou turns away to glance at a large number of soldiers, and when he turns around, he's already ash, leaving only his sword behind. Admittedly it hurts a little less than the anime (in which Souji dies alone and Hijikata and Chizuru find his sword), but it was still too fast. Seeing how I messed with so many timelines I decided to AU it all the way. It was for Saitou, really, because in the movie you get the feeling he suddenly realises, starkly, that he's the only captain of the Shinsengumi left and he drinks the ochimizu then and there and lets out his rage. Too sad. I wanted closure for him, so AU it is. I hope that made sense…


End file.
